


How's the weather (am I better)

by RenderedReversed



Series: Pokémon AUs [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: 'why is this a pokemon au' you might ask, ...now with additional happiness in chapter 2, Alpha Tom Riddle, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Pokemon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omega Harry Potter, tbh i have no idea, well my friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-09-26 06:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9871697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: Harry's heat comes two weeks early.Unfortunately, he's alone, dehydrated, and pretty sure Kyogre and Groudon are duking it out in his stomach, because that's the only logical explanation for pre-heat cramps this bad.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

The heat is stifling.

It’s not, Harry realizes, the fact that he’s in the middle of Route 111’s arid desert. Yes, he has sand in places no one ever really wants sand in, and yes, the sun is eating through his clothes at the speed of a wurmple, but that’s normal. Considering the wide array of environments in Hoenn alone, Pokémon Trainers have to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. It’s a survival skill. The desert is normal.

Harry? Harry is not. Normal. Well, he is, but his body sure isn’t.

His knees go weak, so he sits down. His stomach feels weird, so he hugs it. His throat feels like he’d just swallowed sandpaper, but there’s nothing he can do about that one. The dry heat in the air isn’t what’s making his cheeks redden and his toes curl—that’s something else, he thinks. The sinking feeling of realizing _oh Arceus, that’s not good_ comes upon him all at once, like he’s just stepped in a puddle of quicksand and it’s his feet and then it’s his legs and hips and _oh_. _This is not good_.

The heat inside of him is stifling. Harry whines, resting his head on his knees. Alright, okay, first step—

Sit here and wait. Wait for—

Harry startles. _No no no, that’s not good. That is definitely not good_. _Bad—_ So bad. Waiting is the last thing he wants to do. No, the first step is to get the hell out of here, because the last place he wants to go into heat is inside a crumbling tower in the middle of nowhere.

He tries to stand, winces as his stomach gives a pang of protest, and squats instead. Cramps. Starting out a heat with cramps is never a good sign for Harry. Pre-cramps precede bouts of hopeless crying, stress eating, rampant mood fluctuations, and generally having a shitty time.

His heat is two weeks early and he’s alone and dehydrated and now he has cramps.

“This sucks,” Harry says, or at least he tries. It comes out garbled and ends in the sound a dying wailmer makes—if the wailmer was shriveled up and heaving in the middle of a desert, that is.

 _Alpha_ , Harry thinks, not so much as an epiphany but more as a _this is the solution to all my problems and why is he not here? I need him I want him I need—_

He slaps himself for that one. Stupid. Stupid, stupid Harry. He hasn’t got an alpha right now, and he doesn’t—shouldn’t want one. They’re fighting. It doesn’t matter that he can’t remember what they’re fighting about—his stomach is trying to eat itself and that’s a little more important—they’re stubborn, and they’re fighting, and Tom would rather kick him off a cliff than help him through his heat. Harry is sure. Tom is petty like that.

_Maybe if I apologize..._

Whoa whoa whoa, _wait just a minute_. Wait just a damn minute, he did not just think that. Harry slaps himself again, the sting of the impact blessing his mind with brief clarity. He’s pretty sure that before he made the executive decision to go research the Desert Ruins—completely independent of their fight, of course—he was right, and Tom was wrong. He shouldn’t be the one apologizing; Tom should, never mind the fact that Harry turned off his PokéNav so it’s not like Tom can apologize anyway…

But come on, it’s Tom he’s talking about. Tom never apologizes for anything period, so it’s not like Harry’s PokéNav would’ve gotten any calls.

His stomach chooses precisely this moment to stab his ribs. Harry would not be surprised if his heart had somehow moved to his gut and jackknifed back up into his ribcage, because that would explain why his cramps just adopted a pulse. Life sucks.

Harry succumbs to the urge to curl up on the ground and squeeze his eyes shut. The small blips of pain from his nails digging into his skin helps a little, maybe; he’s not actually sure. Groudon and Kyogre are duking it out in his stomach. He can be forgiven if he’s not sure a little scratch attack did any damage or not.

Harry wants a bed, twenty blankets, and five thousand pillows. Also, Lavaridge’s hot springs sound pretty good right now, and he’d fight someone for a Mauville Ramen Bowl. More than anything, he just wants to go home. Home to Lilycove, to the penthouse, to the familiar scents and the perfectly maintained thermostat because Tom is as prissy as an adolescent skitty—don’t be fooled by the Mr. Perfect Pokémon Champion façade—

He wants to bury his face in Tom’s neck and cry it all out, but Tom doesn’t like weak, sobbing omegas. He’s already emotionally constipated enough for the both of them—or maybe not both, because Harry’s pretty sure a ‘them’ doesn’t exist anymore. His head does the dizzy thing where he’d rather not breathe but breathing’s kind of important to live, so his breath comes out shallow and his head feels like a balloon. Yeah. That dizzy thing.

There’s a game of dodgeball going on in his stomach right now and none of the players are being hit.

Harry croaks out an, “Altaria,” the weight of her PokéBall familiar in his hand. She presents herself with a white light and a soft cry before Harry feels the soft fluff of her plumage brush against his face.

“Ge’me outta here,” he slurs, blind as he fumbles for her neck. Somehow he makes it onto her back, and somehow they get out of the ruins. It’s only when he’s got the wind in his ears and sand on his tongue that Harry figures it’s probably better for his health if he sleeps. Preferably forever, but if it’s just until the end of his heat, he’ll take that, too.

The rest of the flight is a blur.

* * *

When next lucidity returns, his thighs are slick and there aren’t twenty blankets, but there are certainly at least three with him on the bed. Harry knows before he opens his eyes that he’s home—the sheets smell like Harry and Tom, a brand of perfume made by mixing their colognes, shampoo, and fabric softener all in one.

 _Alpha_ , Harry thinks, whining again before he regains his wits. The rest of the sound he muffles by burrowing his head into the pillow beneath, but that might’ve just made it worse. The pillow smells like Tom. He’s evidently been sleeping on the wrong side of the bed.

He wonders how he got here.

The answer comes, as most things do during his heat, suddenly. _Altaria_ , he recalls first, the Desert Ruins long left behind. She’s not here at the moment, which is odd, but not impossible. Tom probably loves his Pokémon more than Harry. The penthouse only naturally has a skylight their flying Pokémon can operate.

Sometimes Altaria just sits there and sunbathes, though Harry doubts she’s doing that right now. She’s a sweet loyal thing he raised from a swablu egg—no way she’d leave him to wallow in his own slick and distress.

The uneasy rumble of his stomach makes Harry wince. He’s gone through this often enough that he knows one wrong move will set his cramps off again, and he hasn’t even gotten to the bouts of hopeless crying yet. Still, there’s a more pressing matter than that. Harry doesn’t know whether Tom is home or not.

Judging from the window, it’s the middle of the day. Odds are he’s at work, like all diligent, pretending-to-be-an-upstanding-role-model Pokémon Champions are. That’s—Harry’s stomach does a little flip and his heart throbs in applause—that’s good.

The bed is too big and his throat is too dry. That’s his excuse for getting up.

His slippers are misplaced somewhere in the apartment, so Harry doesn’t bother looking for them and waddles to the kitchen. He keeps an ear out for any noise, but as far as he can tell, no one’s home. His trousers are uncomfortably coated in his slick, but Harry is too fatigued to even think about wiping himself down.

He fills up a glass of water, chugs it, and fills it up again. It’s chilled, which is great for his throat but terrible for his stomach. Harry thinks about drinking a third cup, but ultimately decides against it. He grabs a few room temperature water bottles instead—they’re from the pack bought in preparation for his heat, he thinks, frustrated and lonely.

There, standing in the middle of an impeccably clean kitchen, three bottles of water in his hands and the inside of his pants wet with another liquid, Harry ducks his head. He acts like the motion would move him further away from the sting in his nostrils, but all it manages to do is further incite his tears.

 _Ah, here comes the hopeless crying_ , he thinks, mind disassociated from his own feelings. No, that’s not completely true. This time he thinks he knows what brought it on. It’s funny what staring at something can make him do—maybe it’s his heat, maybe it’s biology, maybe it’s just Harry, but looking at that unopened pack of water bottles made him think…made him wonder…

Does he even belong here anymore?

Harry sniffs. The pain in his stomach has left with the coming of his tears; it leaves his body feeling tender and fragile all over. That line of thinking only leads him to the inevitable question of what he’ll do when Tom comes back from work. Tom will kick him out, Harry’s sure. They could probably get into a legal battle for it, considering Harry pays his share of rent and all, but that’s not the point. Tom won’t want him here, even when he’s an omega in heat.

Fancy that: an alpha rejecting an omega in heat. Nothing could possibly be more humiliating than that. Tom, the jerk, would probably get off on it.

Harry’s breath comes out jagged and harsh, each inhale spent trying to restrain his tears, each exhale spent stifling a sob. He’s so stupid. What is he even doing, acting like he can just grab a few supplies and crawl back to the bedroom? He can’t spend his heat here. He can’t, can’t nest here, can’t bury himself in Tom’s old clothes and the blankets that smell like them…

At some point, Harry drops the water bottles. He doesn’t pay attention to where they roll away on the tile floor, just knows that eventually, the sound they make stops. He’s displaced in his own home, and it suddenly feels like he doesn’t have the right to move. He’s a guest, a stranger, maybe not even that—an intruder, yes, a trespasser.

He isn’t supposed to be here.

It’s been five days since their fight, five days since he walked out the door with supplies packed for Route 111. Tom hadn’t been there when he left. He was at the League all the way in Evergrande City, because he hadn’t wanted to see Harry’s face anymore and honestly? Harry didn’t want to see his at the time either.

It’s been five days, not long enough for his scent to disappear completely, but certainly long enough to be a bit stale. Even then, the Harry of five days ago isn’t the Harry that’s here now. The Harry of the present is no more than what he is: a weak, sobbing, pathetic omega. He has let his biology define him, drag him back to the home of an alpha who no longer wants him. It has made him yearn for something he no longer has—

_Something I don’t deserve—_

The thought is fleeting and wrong; they’re silly little ticks brought on by the haze of pre-heat and loneliness, but Harry is too exhausted to slap himself out of it anymore.

He curls up on the kitchen floor and cries.

* * *

The thing that brings Harry out of his near-catatonic state is an insistent nudging at his back. Whatever it is, it’s warm, and Harry, devoid of warmth but so full of heat ever since he left the bed, instinctively rolls over to get closer to it.

Something wet licks at the drying tear tracks on his cheek. Harry uncurls one of his arms and reaches out. “Absol,” he croaks, stroking her soft white fur. Absol presses close and rumbles.

She’s Tom’s Pokémon. The meaning of that is lost to Harry’s exhausted mind until he hears the sound of someone running. The footsteps are loud on the wood flooring: muffled, but loud in each collision. _Thump thump thump thump thump…_

Harry’s breath hitches. He buries his face in Absol’s fur. Maybe, maybe it’s not Tom. Maybe he won’t see. Maybe Harry will be allowed to stay here a little bit longer…

“Harry,” Tom says, breathless.

He doesn’t look up; in fact, Harry tightens his grip on Absol and ducks his head a little lower. To be honest, there’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll start crying again if he does anything else. Maybe his hands are shaking. It’s a maybe because he doesn’t know—it’s either his hands or his entire body. One is more embarrassing than the other, Harry supposes.

Tom moves closer, his previously loud footsteps now silent in the kitchen. That’s the usual grace he’s supposed to move with, Harry thinks. Like a predator, a seviper, all slither and no step. This return to normalcy makes one thing clear to him: he’s about to be kicked out.

“Harry,” Tom says again, and he’s much closer this time. By the direction of his voice, Harry almost wants to say he’s kneeling, but that makes him feel even worse, so he curls tighter around Absol in a bid to play pretend for a little while longer.

There’s a pause, the sound of a brush of cloth, and then Absol growls.

It’s jarring enough to make Harry startle. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he does flinch back—it takes a second longer to realize the one Absol is growling at isn’t him, it’s Tom. Tom, her Trainer, Tom. That…that really can’t be right.

Harry makes the mistake of shifting his face away. The familiar scent of his alpha makes him whine. _Here here here_ , he thinks, and then a distressed, _why?_

“Down,” Tom says, and his voice is sharp. Harry instinctively obeys; he lets go of Absol and instead curls into himself.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, detached. _So it isn’t my hands after all._ His entire body is trembling.

Absol growls again, shorter this time, and then Harry can feel her warmth move away. He’s tempted to reach out again for her, but all that thought does is make him hold himself even tighter. Tom’s scent is a jumble: sharp like his previous command, but bitter as well, and there’s an overpowering smell of salt from the ocean like he’d just taken a dive in it. It’s too confusing, and Harry’s scared of making any more assumptions lest they cause his alpha to lash out.

“Good girl,” Tom praises, but there is something lacking in it. It’s like his focus isn’t all there. Absol lingers for a moment, padding a round of the kitchen before she leaves the premise completely.

Fear digs its claws deep. There’s no Pokémon here to blunt the pain of a blow—worse than yelling, it’s the thought of Tom’s coldest tone, the one he usually reserves for criminals. All Tom has to do is tell Harry to get out, and he’ll fall apart all over again. Alpha who does not want him. Alpha who will not touch him. Harry is no good; not even the pre-heat pheromones his body is releasing can entice his chosen alpha. There is no bigger failure than that.

“Harry,” Tom says, and it’s almost too gentle, too feather-soft on his raw heart, “Harry.”

Harry waits.

Tom’s fingers brush his hair. He’s sure there’s nothing more disgusting; Harry hasn’t bathed after his escape from the desert. He’s probably covered in sand and debris and sweat, too dirty to be treated kindly, but the hand petting his head begs to differ.

“Harry,” Tom coaxes, and that’s when his body gives.

Harry unfurls from his fetal position, hands stretching as he whimpers. Tom pulls him closer until they’re together, two puzzle pieces slotted as they should be on the floor, a messy—perfect—fit. One of Tom’s hands buries in Harry’s hair, resting there without the tight grip Harry knows it’s capable of. The other winds around his waist to hold him close.

Tom’s head slots into the crook of Harry’s neck. He draws breath there, intense and needy. Harry returns the favor.

“You came back,” says Tom. His voice sounds as if he’d never taken a breath after that dive beneath the sea, and finally, here, wet and wanting is where Tom takes his first breath.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, or at least tries to say. He chokes half way, throat too dry from his bout of hopeless crying. He’d never rehydrated after that.

Tom squeezes him once, and then he manhandles him into a position where they’re both pulled away from one another’s throats. Harry doesn’t even have the time to whine in askance; Tom’s already twisting the cap off a water bottle and raising it to his lips. The familiar care of his alpha brushes his distress away—crisp as the autumn leaves, a slight wind blows and takes them far, far away. He drinks like a dying man.

“Slow,” Tom reminds him. “Don’t choke.”

Regardless of the warning, Harry almost does. The hand at his hip squeezes, and Harry halves his speed of drinking in apology. It’s hard to help—he didn’t realize how thirsty he was. Dehydrated, yes, but the desire for drink had been all drained out of him after crying for so long.

“I’m sorry,” he says once the bottle is empty, voice clearer than it has been in the last twelve hours. “Don’t leave; I’m sorry.”

Tom pulls him close again. “I know, love; you’re fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry hums and lets the entirety of his weight fall against Tom. He’s so tired, and all he wants right now is his alpha.

“We’ll talk more later. For now, let me take care of you.”

Harry’s alright with that. “Please,” he mumbles.

* * *

Later comes a lot later: a bath, cuddles, a nap, and a warm meal later is when most of his lucidity returns. That also means the oncoming of his real heat, but the couple hours between the two allow him a temporary recovery of the mind, though his body is not so fortunate.

Harry shuffles, surrounded by no less than four blankets and a significant collection of Tom’s clothing. He hasn’t really had the time to properly nest, but it’s enough to satisfy the instinct. Ironically, the soreness of a tough pre-heat has actually relaxed his urge to nest. The heating pad on his stomach is a blessing.

“I don’t remember what we were fighting about,” Harry admits, snuggling into Tom’s side.

Tom doesn’t stop petting him. After a while, he says, “Neither do I,” then, “It’s been a long week.”

Harry makes a noise of agreement. “The desert was boring. I don’t even like fossils.”

“You turned your PokéNav off.”

That makes Harry pause. “Yeah,” he says, ducking his head. “I did. I was angry at first, and then… Then I was just scared of what I’d find.”

Tom frowns. “You thought I’d continue our argument over video call?” That does sound rather stupid.

“No,” says Harry. “I was scared that you wouldn’t call at all.”

Admitting it aloud is different from just thinking it. Harry gulps, but the hand tangled in his hair doesn’t let his thoughts get too bad. Tom is here, they’re home, in bed, and his heat is going to start in a couple of hours. There’s really no better end to this particular disaster, but he’s spent five days thinking nothing but the worst of thoughts. It’ll take a bit more time to get his head out of it.

“For the first three days, I didn’t,” Tom admits. “On the fourth, I tried calling you. It went straight to voice mail. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my entire life.”

“Sorry,” Harry whispers for the nth time.

“You came back. I forgive you.”

“Still. I didn’t even leave a note. That was a shitty thing of me to do.”

“It was,” Tom agrees. “You know, the first two days, I was glad I was rid of you. I thought, good riddance, and made a list of all the things of yours I’d burn. I slept at the League because I knew I would change my mind if I came home. When I finally came back and you were gone—”

His breath catches. Tom’s arm squeezes around him.

“You can imagine,” he continues, “how relieved I was when Altaria came looking for me.”

Harry closes his eyes. “Let’s not do that again.”

Tom hums. “We’ll write a treaty later.”

“You can’t just promise?”

“I’d probably break it.”

He has a point, Harry thinks. “I’m tired,” he says instead.

“Sleep. You’ll be too busy to be tired in a couple hours.”

Harry mumbles something back at him, ending with a soft kiss to his neck. It’s the closure of something and the continuance of another. Tom holds him close and presses a kiss to his head in reply. A moment passes.

“I’m sorry I chased you away.”

“I forgive you,” Harry says thoughtlessly, because fact needs no thought. “Really, let’s not do that again. It sucked.”

“Eloquent as ever,” says Tom with a snort. A beat later, he says, “Never again.”

“Ever.”

“Ever,” Tom agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *writes a/b/o without sex*
> 
> heheheh
> 
> *casually sips tea*


	2. Chapter 2

Harry travels.

Sticking around in one place is no good for him. As long as he establishes himself as a wanderer, it makes it easier to hide his bad days while spending his good days among civilization. He knows he can be prickly sometimes, so those are the times when he shuts off, spends it with just him, his Pokémon, and the environment.

Things get more complicated when he starts dating Tom.

 _Going out. Be back in a couple days or so_ , Harry writes. Then he pauses, thinks, and signs his name with _Love_ preceding it.

In the beginning, those couple days could be a week or even a month, if they were having a spat. But as long as his adventures were, the periods of time when he stayed sedentary in Lilycove were ever longer. At first it was because Tom was a busy person both by occupation and by nature, so it was easy to squirrel himself away even restrained to one town. Later, it became a simple contentedness to stay in one place.

He’s always traveled because he loves adventures, but now there’s something purer about his reasons.

Altaria, happy to be going on a trip, musses up his hair with her beak. She sings on the way to Slateport—not with Sing, otherwise he’d fall asleep—just a tune that echoes _home_ wherever it goes. That’s what his Pokémon know. Harry’s never really found a home, so his home and the home of his Pokémon is everywhere.

The penthouse in Lilycove is a bit more home than everywhere else, though.

There’s a festival going on in Slateport when he arrives, and Harry wants to pick up a few things. He mingles among the people, engaging in short friendly conversations before moving on to the next. The incense stall lacks a crowd, so Harry takes advantage of it and spends awhile testing the different smells, careful to choose scents that don’t offend either him or Tom.

He picks out some limited-edition stationary as well. Postcards meant for his Unovan friends, letterheads meant for longer post to Johto. And, because he has poor impulse control, a bottle of glittery gold ink for his noctowl fountain pen. Tom likes to write, too; his handwriting the envy of every letter writer ever. But for some reason, he only uses black ink, so if Harry ever wants to write in another color, it’s up to him to buy it.

Because he has been saving up some disposable income expressly for this trip, Harry doesn’t worry too much about the state of his wallet. He buys a reversible feebas-milotic silk scarf for a Sinnian friend of his, a pair of mareep-wool gulpin socks for Tom—which Harry will make sure he wears, somehow—and a Weather Institute PokéBall Series™ dive ball bandana for his personal collection. Instead of on his head, Harry likes to wear them as scarves. They’re versatile in a pickle, serving as anything between a face mask to a bandage (though hopefully not that last one).

By the time he finishes shopping, Harry’s pretty hungry, so he stops at a little café for lunch. He ends up chatting with a nice lady and her poliwrath, who had apparently come from Mauville. They talk about the upcoming Pokémon Contest until her friend finds her and drags her off.

Harry doesn’t mind. He lets his Pokémon out for a snack, careful to do it in a more secluded area. The risk of being challenged to a battle is ever-present, especially because festival day means other trainers rolling in from who knows where. When the sky starts to blend colors, he heads for the beach and signs up for a small competition. Some of the other competitors recognize his face, and this time, no one attempts to make conversation with him.

Harry’s used to it.

The theme of the competition is, of course, water types, which matches tomorrow’s Pokémon Contest. There’s complimentary drinks after each battle, a nurse from the PokéCenter on standby, and casual trash talk scattered among the audience. Harry ignores every mention of his name, and he ignores the fingers that point him out to oblivious friends.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t annoyed, but the consequences of dating Hoenn’s Pokémon Champion don’t go away just because he wants them to. All he can do is wipe the floor with his partner, and when people insult him for that, well at least he knows he’s done his best through his own merits. That’s life.

“Ready for some exercise, Empoleon?”

Immediately upon release, Empoleon sends a nasty glare to the whispering onlookers. Harry strides forward and takes his place on the makeshift stage, expecting his partner to follow.

“Let’s have a good battle,” his opponent says.

Harry smiles back. “Yes, let’s.”

It’s the only friendly thing he does. He and Empoleon defeat their opponent’s seadra in just a few calculated moves.

Harry likes battling as much as the next person, but it does become something of a hassle sometimes. After a few lessons learned in the beginning of his relationship with Tom—mostly just battles with sore losers, citing unfair advantage through ‘private instruction’ from the Champion—he’s mostly kept to competitions that include professional trainers, though he himself isn’t registered as one. It’s mostly to have fun while earning money.

A handful of matches later, he and Empoleon are declared the victors. 30,000 PokéDollars is a nice little nugget for his troubles, and as for the wooper beach towel… Eh, he’s been looking for a new towel anyway. It’s a little big for home usage, but Tom has a fancy washing machine that’ll handle it.

“Hey, good match! When you said your name was Harry, I didn’t think you were _the_ Harry Potter!”

Harry smiles wryly. He’s not surprised; Tom makes sure the world knows they’re very much exclusive, and alpha-omega pairs in particular are expected to be something permanent, regardless of reality.

 _Technically, we are,_ Harry reminds himself. They’re serious, just without the marriage discussion. Yet.

His stomach flips. _Yet._

“You were a big help during the Meteor Falls landslide!”

Harry blinks.

“I wasn’t there personally, but my brother Bill was. He said it would’ve taken ages to clear that cave-in if it wasn’t for your empoleon,” Ginny continues.

“Thanks,” Harry says reflexively. “Your brother is Bill? Bill Weasley?”

Ginny beams. “Yep! That’s him! Hey, you said you were staying for the rest of the festival, right? Care for a battle tomorrow? Poliwrath versus Empoleon!”

“Ah, um… I don’t take challenges, sorry.”

Harry watches her shoulders sag. “Oh,” says Ginny, “Okay. Sorry for being so forward, it’s just, you were really amazing to watch out there. I thought you were a trainer, especially because—”

—Of their previous conversation, of course. They’d been talking about Pokémon Contests, but the focus had been the battles after the appeals.

“It’s not you,” he quickly assures her. “It’s just. Principle. I don’t really do impromptu battles anymore.”

“Oh.” Ginny pauses, and when she looks up at him again, her eyes are shining. “What about a spar then? No prize money on the table, just a friendly workout session! I’m pretty broke anyway. Wouldn’t have much to offer if we did battle for real.”

Empoleon, as per usual, is noncommittal beside him, but Harry can tell the battles of previous were no more than a flex of his muscles. Ginny’s poliwrath looks pretty strong. Fighting against someone other than Tom or a League member would be a good change of pace… There really is no harm in it.

“Sure,” says Harry.

“Ah, thank you! I’m so excited! Tomorrow at 8AM, Route 110? And then, maybe afterwards we can go see the Contest together?”

“That’s a good idea,” Harry agrees. “See you then.”

They part ways, and Harry wanders over to the emptier edge of the beach, further from town. He spends the rest of the day with his Pokémon until the night air gets too cold and they’re forced to head back.

* * *

The spar ends in Harry’s favor, though Ginny puts up a good fight. They grab some drinks together before heading over to the Contest Hall, where Ginny reveals that her friend, Gabrielle, is a competing coordinator.

Sometime during the appeals, Ginny leans close enough that her hair is brushing his shoulder. It’s so close that, even though Harry’s not in heat, he can smell an underlying alpha scent beneath her perfume. He instinctively leans away, and Ginny doesn’t try again.

Gabrielle comes in third—an impressive feat for her age, especially considering the seasoned coordinators she’s up against. Harry genuinely applauds when she and her marill accept their ribbon.

They meet up behind the Contest Hall after. A tall blonde woman stands beside her, accompanied by…wait a second, isn’t that Tom?

“Ah,” Harry says.

“Gabrielle, you did so great!” Ginny exclaims, running ahead to embrace her friend.

Tom’s gaze glides over her head and zero-ins on Harry. “Why, this is unexpected,” he says. “Suppose I should’ve known you’d go to something like this.”

Harry fondly sighs. “‘This is unexpected,’” he parrots. “Shouldn’t you be at work? Spearheading wailmer protection laws or something?”

“‘Or something,’” parrots Tom right back. He laces their fingers together, which never fails to make Harry smile. “I was in Dewford, actually, when I encountered Mademoiselle Delacour and heard about the Slateport festival.”

Reminded that they aren’t alone, Harry turns around only to flush under all three pairs of eyes.

“My, Tom,” the tall blonde exclaims, “You said he was cute, but not _this_ cute! Fleur Delacour, a pleasure to meet you.”

Harry takes her hand and barely brushes a kiss to it. “Harry Potter; the pleasure is mine. But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage…?”

“Fleur is the Gym Leader of Lumiose City, in Kalos Region,” Tom says, stepping in. “She’s also the elder sister of Gabrielle here, whom you apparently know?”

This time, Ginny is the one to explain. “Not exactly, Champion Riddle. Harry and I met yesterday, and we…we decided to go to see Gabrielle’s performance together—”

Tom levels her with a look. “And you are?”

“She’s Ginny Weasley,” Gabrielle quickly pipes up. She pulls back a little when Tom’s gaze turns onto her. “W-we’re friends, sir.”

 _This is not going well_ , Harry thinks. He makes the executive decision to change the topic. “Lumiose Gym? The Prism Tower? I believe I battled your mother before, a Madame Apolline Delacour? Her luxray gave me a run for my money.”

“Ah, yes, that would be _Mère_ ,” replies Fleur, as eager as he is to change gears. “She retired three years ago. You wouldn’t happen to be ‘the charming glasses boy with the magnificent goodra,’ would you?”

Harry chokes. “I—uh—maybe?”

Tom squeezes his hand and smiles. It still looks rather vicious, but at least it isn’t spiteful. “There is a high possibility. Harry’s goodra has been with him since it was a goomy. He is an accomplished trainer to raise it so well.”

Fleur smiles back. “Why Tom, aren’t you afraid to brag? I’m already tempted to steal him off to Kalos.”

“Nonsense,” replies Tom. “He’s Hoennite through-and-through.”

And just like that, the tension is back. Harry really doesn’t understand Tom sometimes. Are he and Fleur on good terms or not? _Either hang out with a friend or leave your enemy alone_ , Harry wants to gripe. _None of this ‘keep your friends close, enemies closer’ business. How do you expect me to act if I don’t know what your relationship is?_

Harry holds back a sigh and looks up at Tom. “Well, if you’re not busy, would you like to—”

“I would love to go on a date with you, darling,” Tom immediately finishes—so predictable, Harry thinks. “Please excuse us.”

Fleur’s smile relaxes. “But of course.”

“It was nice meeting you all,” says Harry. “I’ll see you around, Ginny.”

Ginny squeaks. “Y-yeah. If you want to spar again sometime, I live around Mauville—”

Tom doesn’t even look at her. He tugs on Harry’s hand, and Harry barely manages a wave goodbye before they’re heading back into the crowd.

* * *

“So,” Harry begins, sipping his lemonade, “Skiving, are you?”

Tom steals a sip of his own. “Is that really what you wanted to ask?”

“Uh, no, but would you have answered my actual question?”

Tom considers it. “Fleur is slated to be Kalos’ next Pokémon Champion after the current one retires. She is a proficient trainer, but lacks Elite Four candidates. Hence, her presence here is suspicious, to say the least.”

Harry lifts a brow. “You think she’s scouting?”

“Scouting for the ‘charming glasses boy with the magnificent goodra from Hoenn,’ perhaps.” Tom laughs when Harry wrinkles his nose. “Now, my question…”

Harry waits. The ice in his glass clinks when he stirs it with his straw. Unfortunately, they’re in public, otherwise he would’ve long pressed his cheek to the glass, a small relief from the heat of the crowd and season. Besides, Tom would most certainly glare at him if he did that.

“Who’s Ginny?”

Harry sneaks a peek at him. He squints; despite his glasses doing wonders for his vision, that’s not the sort of thing he’s trying to see right now. “You don’t look jealous,” he observes, mostly to himself.

“Because I’m not,” says Tom. “She can offer you nothing. Also, you’re head-over-heels in love with me.”

Harry almost chokes on his drink. Yes, sure, it’s true, but to say it so casually like that—

“However, the fact remains: her perfume clings to your sleeve. It irritates me.”

Almost instinctively, Harry lifts his sleeve to his nose. Tom grabs his arm across the table before he can sniff it. His hand is purely to disrupt; Harry can shake him off any time he wants. The thing is—the thing is—

 _Yeah, okay_ , Harry thinks, swallowing. Tom’s eyes are dark. His leg slides against his beneath the table, lingering for a moment before it disappears completely. It’s only their shoes that rest side-by-side after, but Harry is more than aware of it.

“We’re acquaintances, I guess? Friends. She’s cool. Has a strong poliwrath.”

Tom snorts. His hand falls away.

“We sat next to each other in the Contest Hall,” Harry continues. “That must be why. Um. You smell her… Could you…”

Tom pushes the glass of lemonade forward. “Drink,” he says. “It might help.”

“Wow, fuck you,” says Harry, but he still drinks anyway.

Tom hums, and apparently considers small mercies because he stops touching him, at least for the duration something is going down his throat. (Which. Hm. Harry swallows.)

“If she oversteps her boundaries,” Tom begins, but Harry doesn’t think he needs this talk.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he says, waving. When Tom settles, Harry follows up with, “If something happens, I’ll call Bellatrix.”

The face Tom makes is like he’s just sucked on a sugarless lemon drop. Harry laughs.

“You hate Bellatrix.”

Harry shrugs. “I respect her as a trainer. Also, she looks like someone who knows how to hide a dead body.”

“Harry.”

“Tom,” Harry mimics. He rubs their calves together. “Don’t worry, I won our spar.”

“ _Harry_. That has nothing to do with anything—”

“Well,” he drawls, “If you’re going to start all alpha-like—seriously, ‘if she oversteps her boundaries’? You might as well have said ‘if she doesn’t take her hands off my—’” Harry drops off, swallowing. It’s not the lemonade.

Tom smiles, pleased as punch by how he’s tangled their legs together. “Do finish what you were saying.”

Instead of that, Harry takes a breath, gives Tom a significant look, and slides the glass back across the table. “Drink,” he murmurs, voice dropping a notch.

Tom pulls the glass closer and finishes the drink. His eyes don’t leave Harry’s for one second. Harry can’t even be upset. They can come back later.

Tom inclines his head toward the door.

Harry nods.

They leave.

* * *

Later— _much_ later; they’re home now, and everything’s comfy and fine wrapped in a wooper beach towel that Tom insists on scenting—Harry pauses. Looks up at Tom. Their feet brush together, and Harry wiggles his big toe into the dip of Tom’s arch, bare skin meeting woollen sock.

Tom is taking a sip of his coffee. He looks good, shirtless under the skylight. Somewhere off to the side, Absol yawns, and Altaria hums a few notes to soothe them both to sleep again.

Harry’s heart feels full. There’s nothing better, he thinks, than coming home after a long day, or week, or month—to _this_.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just happy.”

“If I knew you wanted a wooper towel so much—”

Harry laughs. “Mmm, don’t worry. I’ll win you a serperior one next.”

 “If you can find one, I’ll bring it to the League and show it off.”

Harry sits up. “Really?”

A cloud passes overhead, momentarily darkening the space. Tom takes another sip of coffee. Harry, as impatient as he is excited, wiggles his toe again.

“Sure,” Tom finally says, shrugging his shoulders in a movement far too graceful and practiced to express disinterest, “Why not.”

The cloud finishes its journey. Harry beams. He scrambles up, slipping on one of their blankets in the impromptu nest, but that’s okay because he gets right back up again and dashes for their room. Absol, woken by the ruckus, inquisitively treks after him.

“What are you doing?” asks Tom when he comes back.

Harry’s smile grows brighter still. One of his thumbs is scrolling through his DexNav browser. “Searching for more tourneys! When I win the next one, don’t forget—you promised!”

Tom snorts, and then beckons him over. Harry immediately comes and curls up into his side, but he doesn’t stop his search. For what it’s worth, Tom doesn’t stop him.

Absol comes over and licks both of their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the only one who knows if this is foreshadowing is me

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [How's the weather (am I better) [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13587702) by [MTKiseki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MTKiseki/pseuds/MTKiseki)




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